Hold My Hand
by Y0URIMAGINARYFRIEND
Summary: Kankuro, sunsets, sand, and sisters. Incesty, introspecty drabble. Impermanence and beauty can last forever. T-rated for implied twistedness.


Oops, I made an introspection-angst-romance-weirdness drabble. My muse got hold of a bunch of strange ideas, and came out with this thing...I'm not sure I like it, but since I don't know what bothers me I've put it up in the hope someone else will point out my shortcomings. Maybe it just needs a little lengthening, or a second chapter, I don't know. Let me know what you think, I write to make you guys happy after all!

Oh, and WARNING: This is kind of incest, though nothing really graphic. If I add an extra chapter at some point though, it might become more so. If incest really offends you, I'd advise you to go elsewhere.

Anyway, without further ado - for the 100 Themes Challenge:

35) Hold My Hand

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Sunset in Suna is beautiful, but fleeting. The sun fades to black through a million shades of purple-crimson sky, and then all is still. Silent. It's always different, but at the same time, it has been the same sun and te same sand since time immemorial.

Kankuro watches the sunset every day he can, every evening he's in town and not on a mission, he takes those few minutes to simply stand and absorb it all from the Kazekage tower or the city walls. Seeing the whole desert, so huge and wide, stained by the sun's final rays, makes something in him relax, no matter how trying the day has been.

The desert is vast and impersonal, and he loves it for that. It means that, in comparison, his troubles are nothing. Sure, it's life and death to him, but to the sand? He's nothing, not even something insignificant, because the desert doesn't know about people. Being nothing to the land is a huge relief for him, struggling for his father's favor, to free his sister from her responsibilities, desperately trying to avoid death at his baby brother's hands. (Though Gaara is far beyond a baby now, he's sharp and dangerous in a way he wasn't a few years ago. No, baby isn't right at all, but he still feels the need to look after his little brother, to protect him even though he's invincible, invulnerable.)

He wants recognition from the world at large too, from other countries, but not from the desert. The desert recognises nothing, respects nothing, fears nothing. He almost wants to become a part of it, to step out and drown in the ever shifting sky fire, free. But...

But then there's a hand in his. Not holding him back, never – because she's always been willing to let go if he wants and he almost hates her for that – but supporting. Loving.

Her nails are bitten and rough with scratches of sand; her whole demeanor showing her proud blood, the strength she displays on behalf of all of them. She, the center of their broken, mangled family; the only thing that can hold any of them back from the ragged insanity that fills their home.

Temari smiles at him, he can see it out of the corner of his eye even as he watches the horizon, her face stained a dark pink against the dull backdrop of sandstone houses. She looks almost like she's melting into the sun, the sand – everything – and for a moment he's on the verge of keeping hold of her, leaping off the high walls, letting them drown together.

The moment stretches out too long though, and the sun goes, leaving the air almost humming with it's passing. It's still warm, but he shivers, and Temari tilts her head to look at him. She's not really smiling, but her fingers are intertwined with his, thumb scratching dryly against his own, quietly marking time.

Nearly time to go now, back to the bustle and exhilaration and anguish and labor of every day life. She'll wait for his move, let him leave now if he wants to. She never forces him to stay past sunset, never forces anything with those strong hands. He can't tonight though, he was meant to be reporting to his father by now and he can't risk drawing attention to this time they share. The Kazekage is a jealous man, and Temari looks so very like Karura did before everything went wrong. So he sighs and turns to face her fully, skin now shining pale against the darkness.

He kisses her, a bare brushing of cracked lips – beautiful, fleeting; yet permanent, like the sun – and squeezes her hand before bounding away into the city. She might not force him, but he can still feel her hand in his. It will suffice.

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Thoughts? Should I add to it, should it be scrapped, did I use too much metaphor?

Please let me know what you thought, I'm really at a loss with this one.


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